


It's Okay If You Say Her Name

by dramatricks



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Character Death, F/F, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramatricks/pseuds/dramatricks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a split second, everything they loved was gone. Can Rachel and Santana turn a twisted relationship, born out of tragedy, into something more... and will it have the blessing of memories from the past?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Okay If You Say Her Name

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on LiveJournal. It's dark, angsty, sexually explicit and.. Pezberry.

Two stones.

Only two, amongst a field of hundreds.  Two stones, far apart, white and new when there had been only grey separated by endless green.

Two girls.

Only two, unknown to hundreds.  Known only to the ones beneath the stones.  Two girls kneeling, tracing letters, flowers wet with tears and hands fumbling, searching cold granite for a heartbeat that will never come.

The first is dressed simply, blue jeans and a white tank top with a black jacket. Her hair is loose and flowing; she no longer cares how it looks. The flowers are yellow, bright, because she knows it was what she would have wanted.  She hasn’t knelt since she was a fidgety thirteen year old in church; she will  never kneel anywhere else but here, because kneeling means you believe in God.

She doesn’t, anymore.

So she will kneel for her.  The only one she ever truly believed in.

She trails her finger over the name, over the date.

1994-2015

Her tears are faster now, but she manages to read the words, just like she has done every day for the past two months.

How can we know the dancer

from the dance?

She’d picked it out, and was surprised when the parents had agreed.  Even they knew… it was perfect.

She was laid to rest near a pond, which was also perfect.  She hadn’t seen any ducks yet, but the director had assured the family that they came around every so often.  The dark-haired girl knew the blonde one would love that.

She places the flowers across the bottom of the stone, splaying the yellow so that it rests against the granite like a lover’s kiss.  Her forehead lowers to the top of the stone, feeling only cool hardness where she had once felt warm skin. Her tears fall, wetting the carved letters in a baptism of grief that has yet to lift.

“I love you, Brittany,” Santana weeps. “I love you…”

The other girl wears a skirt and sweater under her long coat, hoping to ward off some of the chill she’s felt since a dark night two months ago.  She knows she’s not alone in the cemetery, but her mind is concentrated only on the stone in front of her.

1994-2015

Beloved daughter and friend

She envies the girl that she knows is kneeling across the cemetery.  _She_ got to pick the epitaph, something that summed up Brittany perfectly.  The brown-haired girl wasn’t afforded that privilege, that luxury.  Nor was she afforded the privilege of actually attending the funeral.  The parents had contacted her dads, informing them in no uncertain terms that she would be arrested if she even dared to set foot in the cemetery. She has set foot in the cemetery every day for two months.

The parents of the girl who lies underneath the cold granite haven’t, not even once.

Memories flood her, as they always do on these visits.  She can’t help it; they are the only thing she has left of hazel eyes, soft skin, a gentle mouth whispering words meant for only one.

The flowers in her hands are blue irises, because blue had been her favorite. She rests them on top of the stone, small dainty fingers tracing over a name that had been seared on her heart – whether from pain or love – since she was five. Delicate lips lean to kiss the letters, tears staining the granite as a voice softly sings, a song for an audience of one.

“I love you, Quinn,” Rachel weeps.  “Please come back to me…”

The grass stirs behind her, and she raises her head, wiping the tears from her eyes.

She stands up and takes Santana’s hand.

The gesture is cold, calculated, and necessary.

Rachel sits in the passenger seat as Santana drives in the direction of the motel.

The first time it happened, they didn’t even take off their clothes.  Rachel had initiated it, in the driveway of the small house she had shared with Quinn.  She and Santana had sat in silence, neither of them willing to move, neither of them wanting to go back to the emptiness of homes still full of memories.

Rachel would never be able to explain why she did it, why she suddenly unbuckled her seatbelt and crawled across the console of the car, until she was straddling Santana and latching her teeth against the girl’s neck. Santana had hissed in shock and pain, because Rachel was biting her with all the grief inside of her, and it both hurt Santana and sent waves of heat to her center. But she pulled back, neck aching and bruised, to whisper a shaky “Rachel, we can’t…”

Rachel’s response was to grab Santana’s hand and shove it into her underwear; Santana’s eyes widened.

Rachel was _wet_.

She grunted as Santana swiftly entered her with two rough fingers, but when those fingers started to move, Rachel reached down and grabbed her wrist, stilling her hand.  “Don’t,” she growled angrily.  Santana nodded, watching Rachel’s face as the girl began to ride her fingers, controlling every movement of her body.  Rachel’s body was small and melded to hers perfectly, and even though Santana felt sick, felt that it was _wrong_ , Rachel was pulsing against her, muscles clenching, and Rachel was thrusting hard, her teeth still on Santana’s neck until she came with a groan.

With Quinn’s name on her lips.

Rachel slumped against Santana, her forehead resting on her shoulder, and the girl, shocked, tentatively reached up to wrap her arms around her.

Rachel flew up and scrambled back across the console to her seat.  “Don’t,” she growled again.  “Don’t fucking _touch_ me.”

“But—“ Santana started, brow furrowing in confusion while she tried to fight the ache between her legs.  “I just—“

Rachel’s index finger was shaking as she pointed at Santana.  “Don’t _ever_ hug me again.” She moved so that she was kneeling on her seat, reaching across and digging her right hand into Santana’s jeans, slipping past the band of her underwear to cup her heat.

“Rachel, we shouldn’t—“ Santana whined, lifting her hips into the touch in spite of herself.

“Shut up,” Rachel snapped, but her voice softened, and she leaned to press a harsh kiss to Santana’s pulse.  “It’s okay if you say her name, you know.”

Santana could only nod as Rachel’s finger flicked her clit, then rubbed in rapid, purposeful strokes.  It only took a moment for Santana to shatter, calling for Brittany in her pain and want.

Rachel withdrew her hand, wiping it on her skirt, and then opening the door of the car.  She got out, leaned down, and quietly said, “See you tomorrow.”

She walked off, leaving Santana clutching the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white, her mouth open and tears streaking down her cheeks.

Rachel controls all of their encounters.  She has rules, and probably would have presented Santana with a list of them, if Santana hadn’t crossed her arms and glared at her from her position leaning up against the motel room door, the day Rachel had instituted those rules.

No kissing.  This is Rachel’s first rule. She doesn’t care if Santana presses her lips to collarbone or neck, soft swell of breasts _over_ Rachel’s clothes, but no lips touching lips. _Ever_.

“Quinn’s the only one who will have ever gotten _that_ ,” Rachel says, and Santana understands, even if she doesn’t understand why it makes her hurt.

They don’t talk about it.  There’s no use for it; there is no reasoning to be found behind a drunk driver, speeding through an intersection and crashing into a small blue Prius, killing the passengers in the front and back seats. There is no understanding why two other passengers are left alive with little more than bruises and broken hearts.

They don’t talk about _anything_.

They rarely take clothes off, and if they do, it’s only bottoms.  They are never completely naked and vulnerable with each other.  They save that for when they are alone, in apartments and homes rife with pictures and scents of _others_.  Then, vulnerability awakes itself in two girls who curl up in empty beds with pillows in their arms, trying to imagine softness and love once again.

Even though they have their encounters for an hour in the local rent-a-room, they never stay with each other afterwards. There is no cuddling, no basking in an afterglow, because the afterglow doesn’t exist.  There is just Rachel and Santana, fucking up against the wall or on the bed until their dead lovers’ names spill from their lips.

Then it’s just clean up and go home, with a promise of tomorrow.

It becomes a disgusting ritual, to Rachel’s mind: daily visitations in the cemetery followed by gasps and moans in a dingy hotel room that probably hasn’t been properly cleaned in years. Sometimes it lasts only minutes, and Santana returns the motel room key while Rachel waits in the car.  Other times they utilize the full hour, with Santana and Rachel lying on the bed afterwards, curled up and facing away from each other.

They are each other’s pathetic substitutes, a way to close their eyes and imagine that fingers and tongues are someone else’s, that moans can reach beyond the dead and come back to life, that imagination can erase reality, if only for an hour.

Fifteen dollars an hour, sixty minutes to forget.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

Sometimes they want to quit, but they don’t.

A litany of apologies at a cemetery, a prayer of wants and needs in a dingy hotel room with Vacancy flashing hot against their eyes.

For one, it is only a reminder that she is still alive, even if she wants to be dead.

For another, it is so much more.  It is desire.  It is _penance_.

It’s something the other can never know.

But God or the universe must have other plans, because it happens on a Wednesday.

Rachel’s hand is fisted in Santana’s hair and her fingers are curling _just right_ inside her, stroking the ridges she finds there, and Santana’s hips are bucking as she mewls, little pants and grunts into Rachel’s ear that embarrass her. Rachel’s thumb twists roughly over the wet, slick bundle of nerves at her center, and Santana explodes, screaming a name.

But it’s the wrong name.

It’s _Rachel_ ’s.

Rachel might be little but she’s strong as _hell_ , as Santana finds out when she goes sprawling off the bed from the force of Rachel’s shove, her ass hitting the floor with a thump and she knows she’ll have difficulty sitting without wincing later on. Rachel is still kneeling in the center of the bed, hands clenched at her sides and her face white as she glares down at the girl.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” she sneers, and for once in her life, Santana Lopez is scared of Rachel Berry.

“Rachel, I—I,” she can’t find the words because Rachel looks _devastated_ and angry, and Santana doesn’t know what to do with that combination.  But she tries.  “I’m sorry.”

“This isn’t for _us_ ,” Rachel snaps.  “We’re not doing this for _us_ , Santana.”

“Then what are we doing it for?” Santana asks softly.  “Why are we doing this?”

“It’s just sex, Santana,” Rachel says, finally sitting down and crossing her arms over her chest.

“No, it isn’t.” Santana doesn’t get up, just stares up at Rachel from the floor.  “You know it isn’t.”

Rachel looks away.  “You’re not allowed to say my name.  Only… only Quinn gets to do that.”

“Quinn is dead. I’m not _Quinn_.”

“You’re right about that,” Rachel says sullenly.  “You could never be her.  Maybe we should stop… doing this.”

Santana doesn’t know why, but the words send chills down her spine, and she panics, only to find herself blurting, “Rachel, there’s something you should know.”

_Brittany’s hands are soft and gentle, as always, but her tongue is torturous, as always.  She never just **fucks**_ _at first, no matter how much Santana wants it, needs it.  No, she’ll make the girl **beg** , make her actually **sob** for want of rough fingers or a tongue slipping inside her, and Brittany will just smile, trailing the tip of that godforsaken tongue over Santana’s clit, slowly and sweetly. _

_One finger slides inside just enough for Santana to lift herself into it before it’s gone, and she’s barely able to fight off the string of swear words that threaten to fall over them both._

_Brittany only giggles, dragging her tongue again over Santana’s heat and lapping up the wetness, listening to the sounds that she loves… and then she makes her move.  She **bites** at Santana’s clit while she shoves three fingers inside, and Santana’s off the bed, back arching and eyes rolling in her head as she screams._

_“Rachel!”_

_Brittany’s hand stills; her mouth pulls away with a soft ‘pop,’ and Santana’s crying because what the fuck has she just **done**?_

_But Brittany just shifts herself upwards until her body is flush against Santana’s side, and she cups her cheek with her hand and says softly, “It’s okay, S.  I **know**. I’ve always known.”_

_Santana can’t stop crying and she presses her face into Brittany’s neck, hands clutching at her and finding only skin, warm smooth skin that smells of vanilla and sex.  “I love you,” she mutters, over and over.  “I love you, B.”_

_“I know.”  Brittany kisses her.  “But you love her too.”_

_She doesn’t want it to be true, she knows it’ll destroy everything she’s earned up to this point… but Santana nods._

_To her surprise, Brittany is smiling when she pulls Santana’s head away to look at her._

_“It’s okay, S,” she says again. “It’s okay if you say her name sometimes.”_

Rachel stares at her.  “Why the fuck are you saying this to me?”

Every ounce of badass has left Santana Lopez, because she’s crying as she softly whispers, “I loved Brittany.  I _loved Brittany_ , Rachel.  But I _wanted_ you.  It… it’s always been you, oh god…”

Her legs are pulled up and her forehead is resting on her knees; all she can hear are her sobs, Rachel’s breathing, and the gunshot-loud ticking of the clock on the wall above a bed with rumpled blankets.

“I don’t believe you.”

Rachel’s voice is cold, and Santana laughs mirthlessly.  Of course she doesn’t.

“It’s true,” she shrugs. “That wasn’t the last time I said your name, wasn’t the last time I _screamed_ it when _Brittany_ made me come.”  Her voice is bitter, anguished.

“Shut up,” Rachel demands.

“It’s your fucking _eyes_ ,” Santana snaps, finally raising her head to look at her.  Rachel’s face is still white, uncomprehending, and those eyes… those beautiful eyes… are empty.  “It’s like they see right through me, you know? Ever since I first saw you, it’s like that fucking sixth sense of yours _knows_ me.”

“Shut up,” Rachel says again, but it’s softer now, wavering.

“I don’t want to love you, don’t you see?” Santana begs. “Brittany was my best friend, she was so _good_ , and nobody loved me the way she does—did.” She winced. “And I loved her, Rachel, I _swear_ I loved her. But there was you in the background, there was always you… and I couldn’t handle it, loving both of you. So I tried to shove it down and at the same time I thought that it’d be easier… easier… if Brittany was dead.”

Rachel chokes on the gasp that rose in her throat, hands scrabbling to grasp at rough fabric, holding tight to something that could provide an anchor.

“And now she’s dead,” Santana murmurs, looking at the carpet. “She’s dead, and Quinn’s dead, because it’s my fault.  I’m a fucking murderer, Rachel.  I might not have been in that car, but… I almost wished it.  I almost wished the best thing that has ever happened to me was dead.  Because… I love you.”

“Don’t say that,” Rachel says, her voice cracking.

Santana meets her eyes.

“I love you, Rachel.”

“No!” Rachel jumps up and pressed herself against the far wall, away from Santana.  “No.  Get… get out.”

“Rachel—“

“ _Get_ _out_!” She screams, and points to the door.  “Get out, get out, get _out_!”

“Rachel, how will you get home?” It’s a feeble attempt, but she tries anyway.

“I don’t care,” Rachel hisses.  “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

“Rachel, please,” Santana whimpers.

Rachel runs into the bathroom and slams the door shut.

The harsh click of the lock breaks Santana’s heart for the second time in a year.

Later, Rachel stands in the bathroom of the home she once shared with Quinn, looking into the mirror; she thinks she sees hazel eyes staring back at her, and it only makes her cry harder.  It had taken her an hour to walk back home from the motel, and she’d been scared to death because it was mostly highway, but she made it.  Being home doesn’t stop her trembling though, and she’s clinging to the edge of the sink, trying to calm herself.

“Quinn,” she whispers into the silent acoustics, “What am I going to do? Baby… I don’t know what to do, you have to help me.  Please, help me.”

There is no answer.

There is no answer until Rachel crawls into bed and hugs Quinn’s pillow, trying to breathe in her perfume, but knowing that it’s not there.  It’s been too long; any essence of Quinn that might have been left has faded. She falls asleep but jerks awake hours later when she’s heard the answer, a soft word echoing in the dark blanket of midnight.

_Rachel._

It isn’t Quinn’s voice.

Rachel gets out of bed and throws on her coat, stepping out into the cool night and getting into her car.

She isn’t really sure of where she’s going, until the car stops and she’s in front of Santana’s apartment building.

Santana’s eyes are bleary with sleep when she answers the door at Rachel’s insistent knocking, but they clear immediately, catching sight of her, only to be replaced with confusion.

“Rachel?” she asks gently. 

Rachel sees tear stains still evident on her cheeks, and she fights back the guilt.

“May I come in?”

Santana nods and steps back.  She’s wearing a light purple nightdress that clings to every curve in just the right way, and Rachel almost turns around and runs away, ashamed at having noticed.  But she doesn’t, just walks into the apartment that still seems to be so full of Brittany, and looks at Santana.

Santana moves to sit on the couch in the living room, and she hesitantly pats the seat next to her, but Rachel shakes her head.

“Are you all right?” Santana sighs.

“No,” Rachel admits.  She looks around, at the pictures of ducks on the wall, at the family photos that line the shelves, anywhere but at Santana in that damn nightdress, looking tired and sad and vulnerable.

She gives up and sheds her coat, noticing the way Santana’s eyes widen and her breath comes out in a little gasp, because Rachel is still wearing _her_ nightdress, the one that is black satin and cuts just under her thighs.

She goes to stand in front of Santana so that their knees are just barely touching, and she can see that the other woman swallows hard at the contact.

“I’m so scared,” Rachel says softly, meeting Santana’s eyes.

“Of what?” Santana whispers.

Slowly, so slowly, Rachel lowers herself onto Santana, straddling her, knees resting on the couch on either side of the girl.  She links her arms around Santana’s neck, and looks down at her.

“I don’t know if I can love you the way I love Quinn.”

Santana nods as if she understands; she _does_ understand.  “I’ll take what I can get,” she murmurs quietly, just before her words are cut off by Rachel’s mouth on hers.

It’s a little rough and more than awkward, causing Rachel to pull away and ask, “Was that all right?”

Santana actually manages a smile around the tears that are starting to come _again_ and cups the back of Rachel’s head with her hand, drawing her back down, kissing her fully. “It’s fine,” she says and she _means_ it, as Rachel’s mouth opens to allow Santana’s tongue access.

It’s not fast and heated, but gentle and languid; neither of them is in a hurry.  But soon Rachel’s knees are uncomfortable and she shifts slightly; it’s as if Santana can read her mind because suddenly her hands are under Rachel’s ass, and Santana is lifting her up in strong arms and carrying her to the bedroom.

She lowers Rachel to the bed but stands there next to it, looking down at her.

Santana Lopez is nervous.

Rachel Berry is, too, but she plays it off by sitting up on the edge of the bed and putting her hands on Santana’s waist, drawing the former cheerleader to stand between her knees.  Santana shivers as Rachel’s hands slip southward until they reach the hem of that lilac nightgown; she lets her eyes ask the question, and Santana’s teeth worrying her lower lip provides the answer, as Rachel drags her hands up, fingers caressing the tan skin, taking Santana’s gown with them. Santana raises her arms and Rachel discards the gown, leaving Santana naked save a pair of black lace panties. She doesn’t have time be self-conscious, though, because her eyelids flutter shut when Rachel suddenly runs her tongue from Santana’s navel to the soft warmth between her breasts.

Her eyes fly open, though, because then Rachel wraps her arms around Santana’s waist and presses her face against her stomach, and she can feel the wetness of tears. They’re breaking her rules, but Santana doesn’t care as her arms slide around the small still-diva, burying her own face in soft, fragrant brown hair. She can feel Rachel’s breath raising shivers on her skin, but for the first time she ignores the call of her own body, because this feels _real_ , this is the forbidden embrace that Rachel has denied her, and she’ll be damned if she breaks the spell.

Rachel’s hand moves to touch wetness; the lace of her panties catches against Santana’s skin and she moans softly into Rachel’s hair, her body rocking forward when fingers clear the fabric to circle her clit. There is no urgency, the “get it done and move on” attitude of their previous encounters has vanished; Rachel is slow, a duet of her fingers on nerves coupled with her tongue dancing around Santana’s navel.

“Rachel,” Santana sighs, feeling herself shudder, “I don’t think… I can stand…”

She feels the upward curve of a smirk against her stomach, and she rolls her eyes.  Rachel doesn’t remove her hand, just presses the other on Santana’s waist, urging her toward the bed.

But Santana stops, a slow smile glancing over her face as she gently clasps Rachel’s wrist and pulls her hand out of her underwear.  Rachel tilts her head before realization appears in her eyes.

She’s on Santana’s turf now.

It’s amazing, to see how Rachel’s entire body stills, how her eyes raise to meet Santana’s, and she just… waits. The fire hasn’t gone out of her; it burns low and deep inside her stomach and Santana can see it in her gaze. The other thing she can see is that she is nearly naked, and Rachel is fully clothed.

Santana kneels between Rachel’s legs, grasping the hem of her nightgown.  She doesn’t ask, but Rachel nods at her anyway, and she smiles. Her palms graze Rachel’s thighs, her pelvis, her hipbones; Santana traces a map with her hands up the expanse of Rachel’s body, black satin sliding along with fingertips and nails leaving scratches. Rachel is trembling under her touch; when the nightdress is discarded to rest in a heap with Santana’s on the floor, she crosses her arms over her chest, hugging herself.

“No.” Her voice is firm but soft; Santana stands up and takes the girl’s wrists again, pulling her arms away. Rachel attempts to release herself from Santana’s grasp, but she holds fast, gently. “Rachel…”

“I don’t know what to do,” Rachel whimpers suddenly.  “I’ve never… not with anyone else… I don’t…”

There have been others, for Santana, but only a few: one-night stands during the months of breakups, when she and Brittany were too stubborn just to let life and love take its course.  She’s never thought about Rachel never having another; she has supposed there’s been at least that St. James fucker… but apparently, she’s wrong.

Never mind what they had been doing together; Santana knows that in Rachel’s eyes, Quinn Fabray was her first… and only.

Her heart in her throat, Santana moves so that she is on the bed with Rachel, hands on her shoulders gently pressing the girl onto the pillows.  She slides in next to her, brushing hair out of her eyes with her fingertips, and lowers her lips to Rachel’s.

“I’ll take care of you,” Santana says quietly.  She pauses, then adds in a whisper, “It’s okay if you say her name.”

She’s surprised when, after minutes of gentleness and the careful curve of fingers, Rachel comes with _Santana’s_ name on her lips… then promptly burst into tears.

_Shit_. Santana scoots closer, taking Rachel in her arms and kissing her, not caring that the taste of Rachel is still on her lips.  “Please don’t cry,” she murmurs.  What could she say? It sends a thrill through her, that Rachel had cried her name, but Santana feels guilty that something like that could send the smaller girl into hysterics.  It just proves what Santana has known, all along.

She’ll never be good enough for Rachel Berry.

“It’s just… it’s just…” Rachel is hyperventilating, and immediately Santana rolls on top of her, pinning her down.  Rachel’s eyes widen.

“Relax,” Santana says softly, ghosting her lips over Rachel’s.  “Breathe, baby, it’s going to be okay.”

She tries to remember the last time she’d called anyone baby.

She remembers.

_“I love you, baby,” to a tall blonde former cheerleader, who smiles at her from the passenger side. Her response dies on her lips with a scream and the crunching of metal._

Rachel is practically choking underneath her; Santana has no idea why she thought being _on top_ of Rachel would do much more than make her body crave skin against skin even _more_ , but fuck if she’ll let her body dictate _this_ , not right now.  Her mouth is on Rachel’s cheeks, her eyelids, her temple, each kiss everywhere a silent prayer to whatever God there might be out there.

_Please, please let her be okay_.

And suddenly Rachel has stilled, hands reaching up to cup the back of Santana’s neck, pulling the girl down and raising herself up until their lips meet in the middle.  Santana goes rigid, and Rachel whispers against her mouth, “Do you think Quinn and Brittany are mad at us?”

Santana sighs and puts her hands flat on the bed, on either side of Rachel, and pushes herself up slightly.

“We’ve been doing this for _months_ , Rachel.”

Rachel shakes her head.  “No.  We’ve been fucking for months.  Tonight… I don’t want to fuck you, Santana.  I want to…” She looks away, swallowing hard, tears still trickling down her cheeks.  “Please don’t be mad at me, baby,” she whispers, and Santana’s heart clenches.

Rachel looks Santana square in the eyes.

“I want to make love to you.”

Her heart fucking _stops_.  She can feel it, can feel the way the blood just… stills within her, and her mouth drops open slightly, because when Rachel had shown up at her front door just over an hour ago, she hadn’t expected _this_.

She’s never expected _this_.

She’s not eager, she’s not… she doesn’t know what she is.  It’s a mix of wanting and regret, desire pooling alongside guilt, Rachel’s face melding into Brittany’s and back again, and Santana has no fucking _clue_ what she’s supposed to do.

Her heart starts again with a beat that nearly knocks her off the bed, because Rachel has pressed her lips to Santana’s pulse point and she’s sucking, tenderly, with a gentleness that Santana hasn’t felt for months.  Rachel puts her hands at Santana’s waist and rolls them over, and now the girl is crying because Rachel has raised her head and is looking down at her, with something a little like love and a lot like fear, and she wants to tell Rachel to stop, that it’s okay, she doesn’t have to...

The words don’t come, because that _mouth_ is latching around her nipple and she can’t help but moan instead.

Just like every other encounter, they don’t talk.  Rachel keeps herself busy, tasting every inch of Santana’s skin, alternating between salt and sweat and memories of _Quinn_ , because even though it’s different parts of it are the same.  She wants to forget Quinn for just a moment, but if she forgets maybe that means Quinn was never loved, and she knows that’s not true.

But Santana’s panting and grinding below her, and Rachel wants nothing more than to shimmy between the girl’s legs and taste _her_ , taste the secret that Santana has been keeping from her ever since they were sixteen, and Rachel had thought the girl hated her. She removes Santana’s panties in one swift move, eliciting a grunt of surprise from the girl.

She’s pretty sure that hate isn’t what makes a person _this_ wet, and Rachel’s groan matches Santana’s in volume when her lips close around a slick clit, tongue swirling to find the tip and flick it.

Santana’s hips jerk against Rachel’s mouth; sweat is beading at the base of her neck and her knees are lifting, legs spreading to ask for _more_ , her hands fisting in the sheets and clutching hard.

All women are different, but there are certain sounds, certain signs that are universal, and Rachel knows them well.  Santana is open for her, a heady scent is filling her and making her drunk, and even though she wants to go slow, wants to make this sweet and loving even though it feels like betraying Quinn, Rachel _wants_ Santana, so her mouth never leaves the girl’s clit, even while she extends three fingers on her right hand, and pushes them inside.

It feels so _good_ and Santana has to bite her lip to keep from babbling, because all she wants is _yes right there harder faster do that don’t stop_ , but she can’t keep her hands from pressing against the back of Rachel’s head, pushing the girl further into her, and dear god, did she just _whine_ because Rachel pulled away from her?

Rachel looks at her with half-lidded eyes, and there’s nothing sexier to Santana right at that moment, because she can see _herself_ shining on Rachel’s lips.

“Hands on the headboard,” Rachel growls, and Santana’s eyes nearly fly out of her skull, because no, _that’s_ even sexier, and she raises her arms above her head and curls her fingers around the slats of the headboard, holding on.

Rachel pushes herself up until she’s once again on top of Santana, dipping her head and kissing her slowly.  “I’m not trying to control you,” she says nervously.  “I just… I need to do this without… I mean…”

“I get it,” Santana says hurriedly, moving one arm to rest against the small of Rachel’s back.  “I get it, baby.”

She sees Rachel wince at the word, and it’s like a knife in Santana’s gut.  She doesn’t have time to think about it, though, before Rachel has slid back down to the foot of the bed, and dips her tongue into Santana’s center.

It takes everything she has not to tear her hands away from the headboard and _make_ Rachel do what she wants, because damned if Rachel isn’t just like Brittany in that apparently torture was a pastime she has honed well. She is slow and focused, every stroke of her tongue measured by Santana’s reaction. So while Santana’s eyes keep rolling back in her head and she’s cursing God and all creation for Rachel being such a fucking good _tease_ , she wants more of it, and Rachel brings it all home by sliding her hands under Santana’s ass and lifting the girl into her mouth; with one final suck of Rachel’s lips on her clit, Santana breaks with a scream.

And she doesn’t _stop_ breaking, because Rachel’s fingers plunge into her, twisting and curving, coaxing out a second orgasm, then a third, until Santana is sobbing and begging for it to stop, begging for it to never stop; it’s as if every muscle in her body is being stretched beyond capacity.  Her arms are shaking, hands straining to hold onto the headboard, and as yet another orgasm rips through her, the world goes black.

_“Santana.”_

She licks her lips.  “Brittany?” she croaks.

“No.”

Her eyes fly open.  She’s in her bed, in… Rachel’s arms. She struggles to sit up but her head is swimming and her body… dear god. Her body _aches_ in the most delicious of places.

Rachel Berry has done that.  She feels a stupid grin beginning to form, which vanishes as soon as she realizes what she has said.

_Brittany_.

“Rachel…” Her tongue feels thick, like cotton.  “Water?” she manages.

“Of course.”

Rachel gets up, and the bed feels cold and empty without her.  She hears Rachel puttering around in the kitchen, then a crash, then “Fuck!” and she quirks an eyebrow.  There’s the sound of water, and Rachel is back, sitting on the edge of the bed and tucking one hand under Santana’s head, raising her up to drink.

She swallows greedily, nearly choking, draining the glass in an instant.  Rachel sits it on the bedside table and just looks down at her.

“Thanks,” Santana breathes, grateful to have her voice back.  “What the hell happened in there?”

Rachel blushes.  “Your glasses are a little… um… hard for me to reach.”

Santana grins. “Sorry about that, short stack.  Rachel, what…”

Rachel slides back up against the headboard, stretching her legs out, not minding when Santana curls herself onto her lap. “You passed out,” she says, smiling when Santana lets out a pleased purr at Rachel’s hand stroking her hair.

“No, I gathered that,” Santana murmurs, closing her eyes. Rachel is soft and gentle, and she is sleepy, but she fights to stay awake, not wanting to lose a moment of Rachel’s hand, Rachel’s body, _Rachel_. “I just meant… that’s your idea of making love?”

Rachel chuckles a little.  “What can I say, you brought it out of me.”

They are silent for a moment, broken when Santana asks, her heart on her sleeve, “Stay?”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Please? I can’t make you breakfast in the morning because I don’t have anything vegan, but—“

Rachel chuckles again, but it’s dry, hollow, this time. 

“What?”

Rachel sighs, her hand coming to rest against Santana’s back. “Quinn loved bacon, you know that.  When she—after the accident… there were like three packages left in the fridge. At first I just cooked it, because the smell reminded me of her.  But then… I’ve eaten bacon every day for the last three months. It’s like some kind of fucked-up memorial.”

Santana nods. “I sometimes look at pictures of ducks online.  It just… makes me feel like she’s there, you know?”

“I know.”

“Rachel… please, stay.”

Rachel sighs again.

“Okay.”

When Santana awakens as the first rays of sunlight slip into her bedroom, she’s suddenly aware that there’s an arm around her waist, and a head on her chest.  Rachel is still asleep, her mouth slightly open in an expression of contentment.  There are tear stains on her cheeks, but when Santana attempts to move so she can go to the bathroom, Rachel whimpers and clings tightly.

Santana smiles.  The bathroom can wait.

It starts off slow, the two of them still going to the cemetery every day, but instead of separating, they stand next to each other, arms around waists, bearing each other up. They no longer go to the motel; instead, they go to Rachel’s house or Santana’s apartment; but there’s not always sex.  Instead, there are movies or Rachel’s endless supply of board games, there is quiet talk over dinner.  There are dates to restaurants; there is Rachel dragging Santana to any and every musical put on by the local theater company.  There is Santana grumbling each and every time, but loving it anyway.

There are tears and raging fights, Rachel’s tiny fists battering against Santana’s chest when she accuses the girl of wanting Quinn dead because she’s wanted Rachel all along.  There are tears when Santana sinks to her knees and begs for forgiveness; there is absolution when Rachel sinks to her own knees to hold her, kissing her and whispering “It wasn’t your fault,” over and over.

Rachel wants to give up her classes at OSU and Santana refuses to let her, playing dirty and saying that it isn’t what Quinn would have wanted. Rachel doesn’t listen and Santana starts showing up at Rachel’s house every morning to drag her out of bed with coffee and breakfast, hauling her cranky ass to campus.

They both cry when they realize a week has gone by and they haven’t visited the cemetery.

They cry harder the night that good-natured arguing over a game erupts into a tickle fight and laughter, because they feel as if neither of them deserves the happiness.  That same night, as Rachel’s fingers deftly bring Santana to the edge, she whispers “I love you” against Santana’s lips; the woman sobs as she comes.

Rachel graduates with honors; when she walks across the stage, she looks out into the audience and her breath catches in her throat, because she _knows_ she sees two girls with blonde hair flanking either side of a cheering, whistling Santana. Afterwards she finds Santana with her fathers in the crowd; the girl lifts Rachel up into her arms, whirling her around, and Rachel presses her mouth against Santana’s ear and whispers, “Get me the hell out of Lima.”

Santana lowers her back to the floor and stares at Rachel in shock, ill-concealed hope mixing with fear in her eyes.  But Rachel’s jaw is set, her eyes clear and determined, and Santana just nods.

Two girls walk hand-in-hand across a cemetery.  There are new stones added since their last visit; the stones that they know so well are beginning to fade with age and weather. Santana lays the yellow flowers against Brittany’s headstone; she kneels down and kisses her name, nuzzling her cheek against it.

“I love you, my beautiful Brittany girl,” she says quietly, the tears flowing. “You were – _are_ – my best friend.  Show the angels how to dance, baby. I’ll never forget you, Brittany.  Never.”

Then Rachel is beside her, her arm tucked around Santana’s waist, as _she_ leans forward and gently kisses Brittany’s name.  “Watch over us, ducky,” she says, her voice cracking. “I promise you… I’ll try to take care of her the way you would have.”

She holds Santana as she sobs, her hands clinging to Rachel’s coat.

There is another stone, and Rachel’s steps falter as they approach it.  Santana’s hand on her forearm holds her up, and she smiles gratefully.  Blue irises are bright against the green grass; Rachel kneels and runs her fingers over Quinn’s stone, tracing the letters of her name.

“’Beloved daughter and friend,’” Rachel reads bitterly, looking up at Santana.  “She was _more_ , Santana, so much _more_ , and they never knew it.”

“I know, baby.” She kneels with Rachel, wrapping her arms around her from behind.

“I love you, my angel, my heart,” Rachel sobs, her forehead resting against the stone. “I miss you so much… Quinn… I love you… I won’t forget you, baby, I promise…”

Santana’s palm is flat against the stone; her head is bowed and she feels reverent.  If there is a God, she knows Quinn Fabray is face-to-face with Him, in glory and peace.

“Take care of us, Fabray,” she whispers, swiping tears out of her eyes and swallowing hard. “I promise you, she’s my _life_.  I just want to… I just want to love her, Quinn.  I promise you.”

They cling to each other, crying softly in each other’s arms, both of them saying goodbye to one dream, afraid of beginning another.

As they leave the cemetery they take one last look back. Rachel lets out a soft gasp and points; Santana follows her finger and sees a duck on Brittany’s grave.  It raises its wings, as if in greeting, before it joins its friends in the pond.

They don’t say it, but both of them are thinking the same thing.

A blessing.

They hold each other’s hand as the plane takes off for New York; they share a look and they know that they’ll never again go back to that cemetery in Lima.  But it’s okay, because they also know that Brittany and Quinn aren’t there.  They think that maybe, they never were.

Brittany is with Santana when, every once in a while, she strolls through Central Park just to feed the ducks.  She sits until her bag of crumbs is empty; drinking in the air and the soft sounds around her, and every now and then, Santana thinks she catches a flash of blonde hair, and long dancer’s legs pirouetting in a beam of sunlight.

Quinn is with Rachel in those calm few minutes before the doors open for a show, when she can step out onto a darkened stage and her voice rises and falls in a soft slow song meant only for an audience of one. And every now and then Rachel thinks that she hears, breaking into the raucous applause of a curtain call, a proud voice saying, “You were wonderful, baby.”

Brittany is with Santana on the nights when Rachel’s kisses are just _too much_ for the guilt that still lingers and she breaks down in her arms, which feel like heaven and hell all at once, and Rachel rocks her and sings about love.  And Quinn is with Rachel on the nights when she gets out of bed and goes to sit in the living room in the moonlight, still wondering if she’s betraying the blonde girl’s memory by craving full lips against hers, and black hair falling into sleepy eyes that look at her with concern, before Santana leans down and scoops Rachel into her strong arms, carrying her back to their bedroom.

Brittany is with Rachel when she teases Santana about being a sap because the girl sends her flowers to each and every one of her opening and closing performances.  Quinn is with Santana every time she utilizes the knowledge that a kiss is the only thing that can shut Rachel up midway through a patented Berry rant.

Brittany and Quinn are with both of them, on a day one year later, when they are sitting in their kitchen having breakfast. It’s a lazy Tuesday with no theater for Rachel, no cheerleading practice for Coach Lopez because school is out that week, just an easy quiet that is interrupted by Rachel clearing her throat, and Santana folding up the newspaper she is reading to place it on the table before glancing at her.

And Rachel is looking at her strangely with her head tilted and Santana feels unnerved under the gaze and a little worried, before Rachel says gently, “Santana…”

It’s unrehearsed and Rachel thinks it’s the most unromantic thing in the world, and her hands are shaking as she fumbles with the box; but Santana knows her life has just become fucking _amazing_ because Rachel is looking at her with love and tears sparkling in her brown eyes and she’s saying, “I’m not scared anymore,” while her hand tips the box open, and the silver rings shine in the light of a New York morning.

 


End file.
